It’s always bittersweet to discover the work of a writer after her death, and that’s the way I feel after stumbling upon the poet Ai.

Black, Japanese, Choctaw-Chickasaw, Irish, Southern Cheyenne, and Comanche, Ai (or Florence Anthony) changed her name to reflect her Japanese heritage, unashamed of her mother’s one-night affair with an unknown Japanese man. Her poetry is stunningly honest, eye-blinkingly direct. It’s also evocative and sensual — and the words of a woman who refused to be defined by any racial, ethnic or gender boundaries society had pushed on her …

Below, her “Woman to Man:”

Lightning hits the roof,
shoves the knife, darkness,
deep in the walls.
They bleed light all over us
and your face, the fan, folds up,
so I won’t see how afraid
to be with me you are.
We don’t mix, even in bed,
where we keep ending up.
There’s no need to hide it:
you’re snow, I’m coal,
I’ve got the scars to prove it.
But open your mouth,
I’ll give you a taste of black
you won’t forget.
For a while, I’ll let it make you strong,
make your heart lion,
then I’ll take it back.
Photo via The University of Arizona Poetry Center